


The Good Lived Yesterday

by grayglube



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Battle of The Bastards, The King in The North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:51:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7526323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We won.”</p><p>His mouth pulls, “Aye, we did.” He laughs and she startles at the sound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Lived Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jandjsalmon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jandjsalmon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Arcturus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7434107) by [grayglube](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube). 



> jandjsalmon wanted Snowmont fluff when I asked for prompts on tumblr, this is about as fluffy as I get and there are still dead bodies everywhere. This is related to Arcturus but like takes place waaaaaay earlier.

They ride out to burn the dead, the snows fall.

 

It has fallen ceaselessly since they took Winterfell and she is dwarfed by the bearskin the maester had placed over her shoulders.

 

It was her mother’s he’d said. Her mother as a bear had been, they'd said. She's been told so many times of her mother she feels like some song more than she ever was a woman.

 

The snow falls, it's all they can do and her ears prickle from the icy heat of it collecting in the furs that were her mother's.

 

Her mount snorts and its breath is so clouded against the stab of winter it might be dragon fire.

 

They dismount to observe from the ridge the aftermath of the battle, to gauge its true scope. She leaves the saddle easily but the bear skin is heavy and the drifts are deep.

 

She is not like her mother, she is not as large as a bear.

 

Her legs sinks into the snow and she worries she might freeze herself by the seat of her pants to the saddle when she returns to it.

 

Glover and Cerwyn pay her no mind, she is last to come where they stand but she has not asked for help and is proud for it. Her pride has kept her well fed, her pride has kept her hungry too.

 

The old men walk along the ridge and grumble about the snow.

 

When she is grown they will not seem so old.

 

Jon Snow says little and responds only to the few question he is asked. He looks out at what the North has lost. The bodies they must burn, brought about by a dead madman and the fool who broke formation. They fool who would be King. The fool who is.

 

She will not lay fault at his feet, men have died, he did not, who else would they follow, who else would lead them, the question build like the snow and Jon Snow is what's left.

 

Still, he is a fool.

 

But, a fool is not the worst thing he could have been.

 

There is no stink of rot or blood or shit in a cold such as this, the field might be glanced over as tilled earth and dirty snow until the sun gleams off steel or the wind moves the mane of a horse into a ghostly dance.

 

The drifts are deeper as they go on and she can go no further. 

 

She stalls and is unsure of what to say, if she should say anything.

 

Jon Snow turns, he does not miss much.

 

“Lady Mormont?”

 

“It is too deep. I will wait.”

 

“It gets shallow.”

 

Before she can protest he has walked back through his boot marks and has lifted her bodily, has stepped with her to where she might walk again. Her bear pelt dragged through the fresh snow and she can only brush it from her and nod thanks when he has placed her where his boots have pressed down the North. She does not know how to give with words.

 

Her face burns, there is indignation and the cutting knowledge that she is still so much a child. For all her nerve and all the strength of her words to command men she cannot lift a sword well enough to kill an enemy or lope through the snow without coming to know some limitation of her station. It is not that she is a girl or the youngest heir of a great house, it is simply that she is still too small.

 

Jon Snow does not grin or smile in jest at her, he merely nods after she has. But, she thinks, he used to be a bastard, he understands what it is to be mocked.

 

The ride back to Winterfell is colder, quieter. Her legs tingle, her hands are pale. The other Lords look much the same as she. Jon Snow does not shiver when the wind blows through them all like an icy lance. He'd died and come back and now he is a King, a King of Winter, The King in the North.

 

He helps her from the saddle because he has seen her hesitance. He steadies her and she nods again, her teeth would click now if she spoke. Her maester comes, slowly, as if he wishes to speak on some great matter but she knows the man’s concern.

 

She is a child. They’ll never say it, they barely pretend to see it. But, she is a child and it is too cold for children now. Jon Snow walks away, grimace and pain and loss in the motion of his limbs, he is alive and yet he is too solemn.

 

“Lord Snow!”

 

He turns, waits.

 

“We won.”

 

His mouth pulls, “Aye, we did.” He laughs and she startles at the sound.

 

Lords and their men turn. They join in with their King hesitant and unsure. She scowls. She does not know why it is funny, her maester promptly stops his own stuttering attempts to join in with such nonsense when she fixes him with a stare.

 

The snow hits the King's jerkin with little force, no potency too it. She is very cold and her fingers hurt. His laughter ceases, grown men wither and curl away, they look at the snow falling from their King and then to her.

 

“Lady Mormont?” He looks like he wishes to continue laughing, her hands are colder from touching the snow, her gloves might never come loose, she swallows. “I was worried you had gone mad, your grace.”

 

“I believe you have returned me to my senses.”

 

She nods and follows her maester. She is very tired, she will rest.

 

Noble ladies rest, children nap.

 

She could do with both.

 

 


End file.
